It’s time for me to go home.
“She’s free, and now I will be as well.”
“Show me your hands!” Agent Machini screams when I creep mine around my back to remove the revolver stuffed down there.
When I pull out my gun and butt it to my temple, she braces her legs at the width of her shoulders, screams my name in a long, mangled roar, then fires one time.
I don’t know whose bullet takes me down first, but I do know one thing, whether in this life or the next, Demi’s smile will always be my most favorite.
40
Demi
One Month Later…
Iplace the book I’m in the middle of onto my bedside table before joining Max on the reading nook in the front window of our apartment. Considering the time of year, the weather is miserable. The wind is howling, and the rain is torrential. It’s the perfect snuggling weather—if I had a partner to cuddle with.
While scratching Max behind his pointed ears that still seem a little saggy today, I take a moment to gripe about my years of celibacy. I’m not single because I am hideously ugly. The numerous dinner invitations I get every week assures me of this. It’s more a personal choice.
I’ve not yet found a man who sparks an interest out of me. They’re great for one date, but by the second date, I’m either bored as hell, or their arrogance shines brighter than the politeness they are cloaking it with.
Since I’d rather live alone with Max for the rest of my life than settle, I’ve done precisely that since the single motor vehicle accident that pinched my memories. I’m sure the right guy will come along one day, but if he doesn’t, I am okay with that as well. I’m happy as I am, so I can handle a little bit of loneliness.
After taking in the way the streetlights make the rain appear more like sleet than droplets of water, I cuddle in closer to Max. “What’s the matter, Maxxy? You’ve been extra moody the past month.”
He’s been sitting by the window for the past two hours, peering south. He’s done it over a dozen times the past four weeks, but mercifully, today’s watch is minus the whimpers he did the first couple of days.
I’ve had the vet out multiple times the past month. She assured me Max is fine. I wish I could express the same. Something is wrong with him. It just appears to be more mental than physical.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
When he flops his jowls onto my thigh, I take that as a no. He usually scratches at the door when he wants to go potty.
“What about a snack? I could fix you something.”
My heart breaks when his big exhale rustles my nightwear. He never gives up an opportunity to eat. He must be truly miserable.
I snatch up the blanket from the sofa before requesting for him to scoot over. When he does as requested, I spoon him like it’s perfectly normal for people to snuggle their dogs. Max doesn’t mind my neediness. He’s just as clingy. That’s one of the reasons he keeps a good distance between me and any man who comes within a one-mile radius of me. He wants me all to himself.
The recollection of his protectiveness inches my lips into a smile. “What about a bacon sandwich. If my memory isn’t failing me… which it does more than I care to admit… I’m reasonably sure Ben restocked the bacon before he left today.”
Ben is the part-time sous chef at the café I own. He has the typical adventure-seeker look down pat. Brown, sun-dyed hair, crisp blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles dotted across his nape.
Despite Macy and Ben saying otherwise, I’m confident we met before my accident. There are too many familiarities about him for me to discount. It was those features that made us great friends the past four years. That, and the fact his girlfriend is my best friend.
We often gang up on him. He only retaliated with a wet tea towel once. His endeavor to protect himself saw his backside housing fifteen stitches.
“I wish I could understand you, Max,” I murmur in his ear when his heart rate kicks up a notch. “It’d be a whole heap kinder to my heart if you could tell me what’s wrong…” My words trail off when Max suddenly launches onto his feet. He barks at a car pulling in at the front of a motel half a block up two times before he jumps down from the reading nook and charges for the door. “Now you want to go potty?” I grumble more to myself than Max.
After placing a raincoat over my nightie, I snag Max’s leash off the coatrack, then pull open the front door. “Max!” I shout when he races down the stairwell like a bat out of hell.
He leaps over the landing, squeezes through the doggy door not made for a dog of his size, then bolts down the street.
“Max!” I scream again while taking off after him.
It’s late, and wild animals wander around these parts at night. He could be seriously hurt if he doesn’t slow down.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I apologize to the man Max has barreled over one block down from my apartment. “He isn’t usually like this.” I’m not lying. I was expecting the man’s face to be a bloody mess. Instead, it’s covered in the aftermath of Max’s sloppy kisses.
